Descendant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 1)

by A. L. Knorr

  CONTENTS

  Oriceran

  Dedication

  Legal

  Oriceran US Map

  Oriceran Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Author Notes - AL Knorr

  Author Notes - Martha

  Publisher Notes - MA

  Social Links

  Series AL Knorr

  MC Series List

  Series List LMBPN

  Descendant

  The Kacy Chronicles Book 1

  By A.L. Knorr and Martha Carr

  A part of

  The Revelations of Oriceran Universe

  Written and Created

  by Michael Anderle & Martha Carr

  The Oriceran Universe

  (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are

  Copyright (c) 2017 by Martha Carr and LMPBN Publishing.

  DEDICATION

  From A.L. Knorr

  For anyone who ever wished they could fly.

  From Martha

  To everyone who still believes in magic and all the possibilities that holds.

  To all the readers who make this entire ride so much fun.

  And to all the dreamers just like me who create wonder, big and small, every day.

  DESCENDANT Team

  JIT Beta Readers

  Alex Wilson

  James Caplan

  Joshua Ahles

  Keith Verret

  Kelly ODonnell

  Kimberly Boyer

  Micky Cocker

  Paul Westman

  Peter Manis

  Nicola Aquino

  If we missed anyone, please let us know!

  DESCENDANT (this book) is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  This book Copyright © 2017 A.L. Knorr and Martha Carr

  Cover Design by Damonza

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact info@kurtherianbooks.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, September 2017

  Version 1.11 September 2017

  The Oriceran Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2017 by Martha Carr and LMBPN Publishing.

  Click to View Full Size Map

  Click to View Full Size Map

  PROLOGUE

  Two hundred eighty years before Virginia became a Commonwealth, a pair of tiny gnomish hands dug into the rich soil of what would one day become plantation land outside of Richmond.

  Under the cover of darkness, under a sky speckled with stars, a silent gnome pressed the seedling of an oak into its forever home in the earth. Gingerly, he held the stem upright and lovingly snugged the earth around it.

  He uttered an enchantment over the sprout and its tender leaves glowed momentarily. The gnome drew symbols into the air and a hole slid open there – the veil between the worlds temporarily rent. The passage was just large enough to accommodate him. He squeezed through and disappeared, leaving the seedling alone. The wind blew through its unremarkable leaves and branches; now one of thousands, indistinguishable from the rest.

  The oak grew, reaching its mighty branches to the sky in a slow relentless march – a humble force of nature, its secrets locked away. A silent giant and sentinel of the forest, it would weather storms and wars, slavery and prosperity. Presidents and movie stars waxed and waned and still it grew.

  Still it waited.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jordan steered her BMW convertible onto the narrow paved road, the last turn before she reached the driveway of the Kacy plantation, her family's summer home in Hanover County, Virginia, the tomato capital of the South.

  Branches of towering oaks criss-crossed over the narrow lane, making a welcoming arch over the home stretch. Cicadas buzzed and frogs belted tunes from the swamps on either side of the road. They were feeling the change in the energy floating through the air—chirping and squawking as though in anticipation of something. Lines of sunlight flashed over the car through gaps in the canopy overhead, stealing focus from the sounds in the background.

  Jordan inhaled deeply in the humid air and pushed her sunglasses back into her blonde hair. The stress from defending her thesis for her Masters in Forensic Linguistics finally began to melt away. She was free for the summer. Free to work in the garden, hang out with her father, go horseback riding and maybe arrange a long hike in the Appalachians with her friends.

  Jordan's eyes dropped to the clock on her console. Her dad should be waiting for her by the time she arrived.

  As though on cue, her phone chirped from its holder. Allan Kacy, a state senator to most, “Dad” to Jordan. She pressed the ‘answer’ button on her steering wheel.

  "Hey, Dad." She was unable to keep the grin out of her voice. "I'm less than five minutes away."

  "Hi, Jordy," came Allan's throaty bass through her car’s speakers. "I'm running behind. Got caught up with a lobbyist this afternoon and I’m still stuck on an issue with her."

  "Daaaaaaaad."

  "I know, I know. I'm almost done, I promise. I'll be hitting the road shortly. Can't wait to see you."

  Jordan slowed the convertible as she approached their driveway and steered the car up to their aluminum mailbox. She opened the box and caught a week’s worth of flyers and newspapers as they tumbled out. "Want me to start a fire?" she asked him. She tossed the load of mail onto the passenger’s seat and her eye caught on a white delivery notice. She picked it up and scanned it.

  "It's June, baby. Is that really necessary?"

  "No, it isn't. But you know how cozy it makes the place. Hey, there's a delivery for you at the post office. Did you order something?"

  The phone went silent.

  "Dad?"

  "Um…"

  Jordan laughed. "What is it this time? A helmet from the Boer War, or a pair of boots worn by General Marshall?" Allan was a collector of war memorabilia. There was an entire upstairs room at the plantation dedicated to his obsession. If you were brave enough to quiz Allan on either WWI or WWII trivia, you'd better be prepared to settle in for a long night.

  "Wait till you see it," Allan said and his voice sounded totally different. Younger. F
ull of life. "It's a beauty. I was lucky to find it, actually."

  "Sounds expensive," Jordan said. "You only say that when you've spent more than a grand." Jordan hit the remote fastened to her sun visor and the wrought-iron gates began their slow, squeaky separation. She eased the convertible through the narrow entrance and down the long, potholed driveway. "Still don't get why you didn't become a history prof, Dad."

  "There's no money in teaching history," Allan scoffed.

  "Well, not our kind of money," said Jordan as she pulled up in front of their towering heritage home. "But you might have been happier."

  "I'm not unhappy, Jordy. But I do have to go. I'll catch up to you soon, okay?"

  "Kay, Dad. See you in a bit." Jordan hung up and frowned. Allan wasn’t happy, actually; he just didn’t want to admit it to his daughter. Going into politics had been his father’s decision, not his own.

  She took her earpiece out, threw it into her bag, grabbed the stack of mail and got out of the convertible. Taking the front steps two at a time, Jordan paused to sniff the wisteria that had a stranglehold on the fat marble columns gracing their front porch. She used her key to let herself in through the wide double doors. She crossed the foyer, purposefully stepping on the squeaky floorboard and smiled at the familiar sound. She tossed the mail on the huge round table in the center of the room. Fresh peonies—multi-colored and fragrant–stood in a large crystal vase in the middle of the table. Jordan leaned over the table to take a whiff. Cal, their groundskeeper, had probably left shortly before she'd arrived. He always set out some impressive bouquet whenever Jordan and Allan were coming to the house. He could do anything with plants and kept the Kacy plantation manicured all by himself. It was a full-time job.

  Jordan slipped into the small bathroom that was tucked under the wide, curved staircase and took out her contacts. Her eyes were instantly grateful for the fresh air. Her reflection in the small mirror went blurry and Jordan fumbled in her bag for her glasses case. The world came back into focus as she put on her trendy specs with the black frames. It was impossible for her to navigate the world without either them or her contacts.

  She went through the broad archway into the sitting room–a massive space filled with clusters of antique furniture and a big fireplace. An antique crank gramophone sat on a table under a window, its brass parts gleaming. Jordan’s mother had loved antiques and, according to Allan, the gramophone had been one of her favorite pieces.

  Jordan heard the fire crackling before she saw it or felt its heat.

  "You beauty, Cal," she said to the elderly fellow who was still down on one knee in front of the fire, rearranging the logs with a poker. Cal was a small, wiry man with dark brown eyes and deep laugh lines. He’d been keeping the grounds for the Kacy family since Jordan was in diapers and knew that she loved to have a fire in the parlor in the evenings.

  He looked up and winked. "Miss Kacy," he nodded. "How did your exams go?"

  "Really well; thanks, Cal. It's nice to find you still here. How's the wife?"

  His phone dinged from the front bib of his denim coveralls. "Impatient," he chuckled. "I'll be heading out now. Just didn't want to leave the fire unattended." He got to his feet stiffly, and scratched his forehead. "Allan working late?"

  "Seems so," said Jordan, coming to stand in front of the fire. "He'll be along soon. You go home. Have a good weekend." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "Thanks for the fire."

  He touched a finger to the brim of his cap. "Welcome. Have a good time with your pa."

  Jordan stood watching the flames and chewing her lip for a while after Cal left. Her eyes drifted to the mantel, where a collection of family photographs stood, becoming artifacts of history. Her mother's face smiled down from the cluster of images, impossible to ignore with its otherworldly beauty: accepting a bouquet after winning the Miss Virginia pageant, in a debutante dress, bare-shouldered and with an arm looped through the elbow of Jordan's grandfather, Declin Richard Kacy. Tantalizing in a strapless cream gown with dusty-pink tea-roses at the nape of her neck, Jaclyn had the kind of face and figure only found in magazines and on movie screens. A tall and leggy brown-eyed blonde, with high cheekbones and a pouty mouth, she had won several pageants, modelling contracts and even the role of spokesperson for an environmentally-friendly beauty brand. When Jaclyn, the sweetheart of Richmond, met Allan Kacy at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new children's hospital, they seemed destined for a happy ending and a house full of exquisitely beautiful children, living along stately River Road—or at least nestled somewhere in the West End.

  Jordan selected one of the photographs and took it down—the black and white portrait of her mother in the antique silver frame. She gazed into the dark brown doe-eyes and frowned. "What happened to you, Mom?" she whispered. It was the defining question of Jordan's youth.

  Jaclyn had disappeared when Jordan was not yet three and Jordan no longer knew if the faint memories she had of her mother were real or figments of her imagination. A long-familiar pang struck Jordan in the heart and her throat closed up, more with sadness for her father than for herself. But still she wondered, what kind of woman would she have been if she had been raised with the help of her mother’s hand? Jaclyn had been beloved. Allan had only ever spoken of her wit, her wisdom and her sweetness.

  There had been no note, suicide or otherwise. There had been no signs of a struggle and no body had ever been found. Jaclyn's Porsche had still been parked in the garage, the engine cool. Her bike still hung on the rack along with Jordan’s and Allan’s. Her luggage was stowed in the attic; all of her clothing was still hanging and folded in her closets. The only indication that Jaclyn was gone had been the open back door. The old plantation property had miles of forests and farmland to the west and south, swampland to the east and the interstate to the north. How far could she have gone when leaving the house on foot? The property’s old well was covered with a concrete slab and the large pond at the rear of their yard had been dragged three times over.

  According to Allan and the investigator leading the missing persons case, it seemed as though Jaclyn had literally disappeared without a trace. The only factor the investigators had to go on was that Jaclyn was still struggling with fairly serious post-partum depression.

  So where did that leave the Kacy family?

  "Nowhere, that's where," Jordan muttered, putting the photograph back on the mantel.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sol heard the harpy before he saw it. The whistling, half-scream half-roar couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Miles of wilderness coastline flew by underneath him, unguarded and unprotected. This was the most dangerous stretch between Rodania and Maticaw; still, it was rare to see harpies this far south. Sol cursed under his breath as another scream rent the air. Even the sound of the crashing waves breaking against the rocks below couldn’t drown out that wretched cry.

  Sol’s enormous tawny wings pumped with slow, powerful strokes, catching an updraft and taking him higher. Being an Arpak, a winged human, meant that the sky should be his territory. Harpies used to be a non-issue, but they were becoming a menace and growing bolder by the day.

  He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the harpy through the cloud cover. He climbed higher in search of the top of the stratocumulus. Fog swirled around him in little cyclones as he powered his way up, his wings pumping.

  Breaking through the cloud cover, he leveled out and shut the nictitating membranes over his eyes. Nothing but thick gray fluff could be seen behind him, but ahead of him it thinned and he could make out a line of green below. The cliffs were coming to an end and the forest was growing thick. Sol smiled grimly. Harpies and forests didn't mix well. The woods represented his only opportunity to shake them off. He didn’t relish the thought of one-on-one aerial combat with a harpy–no matter how many tricks he’d learned at the academy.

  As the clouds thinned, he tucked his wings behind him and angled downward, his body now a bullet streaking toward the earth. As he dropped b
elow the cloud, another hair-raising screech sounded from behind him. Too close. Looking back, he saw a dark shape, broad and powerful; leathery, dragon-like wings driving the beast forward like the pistons of some great machine. Sol faced front and streaked downward before leveling out over the treetops.

  Another glance back had his heart in his mouth.

  There are two of them, now? And they were gaining, fast. He could make out the wrinkled skin of their foreheads and their flat red eyes. Sol didn’t have time to process how strange it was to see two harpies hunting together. Everything he’d learned, everything he knew up until this point, identified them as solitary beasts.

  Sol swallowed as their external teeth came into focus. It was far too detailed a visual for his comfort. He skimmed over the treetops with hard, powerful strokes, watching for a break in the canopy. Harpies were larger and stronger than Arpaks, but they weren’t nearly as nimble. The odds that they’d follow him into the trees were low, he hoped.

  The throaty screech behind him, closer yet, made his decision for him. At the next break in the canopy, he dove. Holding his breath, Sol broke through the treetops and dropped face-first with his forearms up in front of him. This kind of maneuver through a tight space was dangerous for an Arpak, even in a forest of giant dreesha—trees so big and tall, there was a whole new layer of atmosphere underneath them.

  Branches scratched and clawed at Sol’s arms and leather clothing, as he broke through at a speed he would never attempt if it weren’t a life-or-death situation. Taking a glancing blow off a thick dreesha limb, Sol lost a bit of speed and wobbled before righting himself below the canopy. He picked up speed again and worked to maintain his height in the strip of atmosphere between the dreesha canopy and the second canopy of trees below him. Light filtered through the trees in soft pillars, flashing in Sol’s eyes as he flew.